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Chapter Text

       "Did you hear? The Ander has escaped," Jowan whispered as he and Zatrion were walking to breakfast. 

       "No!" Zatrion gasped.

        "The Ander" in question being some student from the Anderfels, at least, as far as the other mage apprentices could tell. The Ander refused to speak; making it difficult to confirm even that. Thus, because he wouldn't give another name, or say anything about himself, he became "The Ander". Not a nice thing, in Zatrion's opinion-if it was him, Zatrion knew he wouldn't want to be called "the Alienage elf". But there was nothing for it. 

        "Yes," Jowan continued with a grin. "Ser Greagoir sent some templars after him and everything!"

         Zatrion shuddered. It was creepy enough to have the templars-those heavily armored men and women-staring at you all day so intently, so carefully, like they were waiting for something. To be chased by them-in that same relentless manner, no doubt-was another thing entirely. 

        "Isn't that a little much?" he asked. "Maybe he just wanted to study with mages in the Anderfels. People who speak his language."

        After all, Zatrion did speak the common tongue, and that still didn't help much in this tower where he was surrounded by humans at all times. Which was an adjustment, to be sure-in Amaranthine's alienage, Zatrion rarely spoke to humans. Most of the time, he'd had the comfort of being among his fellow elves. 
  
        Jowan cackled.

        "Stupid...he didn't leave because he wanted to change Circles. He ran because he didn't want to live here the rest of his life."

        Zatrion blinked in stunned amazement. He glanced around the corridor at the beautiful stone walls, the elegant rugs on the floor, and the occasional white statue. All so different from the Alienage- a cramped, filthy mass of wooden houses walled off from the rest of the city of Amaranthine. 

        Everything in the Circle Tower was different from the Alienage. Back there, breakfast was a hard crust of bread-if you were fortunate enough to get any, that was. Here, awaiting Zatrion and his fellow apprentices this morning was a table full of fresh toast with creamy butter, eggs prepared in all sorts of way fruit, tantalizing fruits and savory pastries. And of course, tea with milk and sugar. 

       And there were so many books. From what Zatrion had seen so far of the Circle's libraries-and the fact it was libraries plural still amazed him-there had to be thousands upon thousands books in there. In the Alienage, almost nobody owned books, because not many elves there could even read them. His family owned about two, and the hahren, the village elder, owned a couple, but beyond that... 

     In Zatrion's opinion, the Circle Tower was the best placed he'd ever been in all his twelve years of existence.

   "Are you kidding?" he cried. "Who wouldn't want to stay here?"

    Jowan scowled. 

     "You've only been here for three days," he muttered. "You wouldn't understand." 

     Zatrion didn't understand. Everyone had been so afraid when they learned about the magic. He'd never forget the dirty look his older sister Nella had given Mother as she went to get the templars. Nor the horror and concern on Pairon's face-even though it was his house that Zatrion had accidentally set on fire. Granted, they'd all managed to put out the fire while the house was still intact, but still...

    They'd acted as if they were sentencing Zatrion to a hanging. Mother with her grim, sad determination and insistences of "it's better this way", Nella with her cries of "How can you do this!" as she chased after Zatrion and their mother, Pairon shouting in the distance "I'll hide him in my house! Smuggle him away somewhere!"...it would have made more sense if it was a hanging. 

     But this was practically the opposite of a hanging. Everyone ought to be happy he was here, surrounded by so much luxury. Did they not know? Had no one told them?

     "Oh, lighten up, Jowan," Solona's voice chided behind the two boys. 

      Both Jowan and Zatrion turned and found themselves face to face with Solona Amell, their friend and fellow apprentice. Well, she was Jowan's friend, at least; they'd practically grown up together.  On Zatrion's first day at the Circle they'd both assigned themselves to him and now Zatrion was their friend too, he supposed. 

     "The Ander is a sourpuss, we all know that," Solona continued as she tied off one of her two red braids. "He's been here six months and he still won't talk to anyone. I'm not surprised he tried to run away."

      Zatrion furrowed his brow in confusion. 

     "You're not?" 

     Solona shrugged. 

     "Of course he'd be miserable if he refuses to talk to anyone. And if he's miserable, why wouldn't he run away?" 

     Zatrion and Jowan nodded. 

      "I suppose that makes sense," Jowan agreed, although he didn't sound like he believed it. 

      "Good. Because I'm hungry," Solona declared, linking her arms with Jowan and Zatrion's.

      ***
     A little while after, The Ander came back. The templars dragged him in like a limp doll, The Ander's toes barely touching the ground, as the templars held each of his arms between them.

     "It seems like he's in a lot of trouble," Zatrion whispered as he, Jowan, and Solona watched from the doorway of the apprentice dormitory. "There must be some terrible punishment awaiting him."

      Solona rolled her eyes.

      "Of course not," she scoffed. "Irving's a sweetheart."

      "Well, you're his favorite," Jowan grumbled. "Of course, he's nice to you. "

       Solona shot Jowan a glare.

       "Don't be ridiculous. Irving wouldn't hurt a kid." 

     Solona would turn out to be right. Later on, Mal, one of the older and more experienced apprentices conjured up a listening spell, so that all the apprentices could eavesdrop on the conversation between Irving and The Ander.

      Thus it happened that Zatrion, Solona, and Jowan were sitting on the dormitory floor along with the rest of the apprentices, surrounding Mal, as she held up the stone through which they would hear Irving and The Ander speak. 

      "Why did you escape?" the voice of First Enchanter Irving asked through the stone in Mal's hand.

      There was the sound of tears, and sobbing.

      "I...I don't know," a voice which could only belong to The Ander confessed. "I just wanted to go home."

      "To your parents?" First Enchanter Irving said.

      "Yes," The Ander sobbed. "To my mother and father."

      "Which did they say?" First Enchanter Irving inquired calmly. "Tell me."

      "I...I never saw them," The Ander stammered, his voice breaking a little. "The templars caught me before I reached them."

      "That's good," First Enchanter Irving said, letting out a sigh of what appeared to be relief, for some reason. "Many parents are afraid of their mage children. I was worried they might have hurt you." 

       "Mama would never," The Ander protested. "She loves me, I know it!" 

       "But what of your father?" First Enchanter Irving countered, his voice gentle but stern. 

       The Ander was silent for a moment. 

       "I see. So, you do understand, a little bit. The Circle is your home now, child. Someday you will see that." 

       Then, to what was probably a templar, the first enchanter ordered: 

       "Take him back to the apprentice dormitory."

Chapter Text

    The Ander had embraced his nickname, more or less; he told him to call him "Anders", and everyone-templar, apprentice, and mage alike-acquiesced. Not that this really changed much. At least as far as Zatrion could see, the boy continued to be as miserable as ever.

     Zatrion was still not sure why, even after a full month of casual observation. Magic lessons had to be the best thing ever, even when it was just theory and/or history. And it wasn't just magic they learned; there was also the history of Thedas, too, as well as languages, literature, medicine and mathematics. 

      Since it was clear that Anders did speak the common tongue, Zatrion's second guess had been that Anders was miserable because he, like Jowan, was bad at magic. But Zatrion soon found this was not the case. Unlike Jowan, who struggled in a lot of their spellcasting classes, Anders progressed relatively evenly along with the rest of the apprentices. 

    Thus Zatrion turned to Solona's theory, that it was because Anders had no friends. So, one day at lunch, Zatrion had arranged it that he, Solona, and Jowan sat near Anders. 

    "Hello, Anders," he'd said brightly. "I'm Zatrion. How do you do?"

     "Go away," Anders had muttered in reply, not bothering to look at them.

     Zatrion turned to Jowan, who cleared his throat and added, 

     "I'm Jowan. And this,"

      Jowan gestured at Solona,

     "Is Solona."

     "Charmed," Solona continued with a smile.

      Anders merely grumbled inaudibly into his bread, most likely something impolite.

      "I know it's difficult, adjusting to this place," Zatrion continued.  "Especially when you're different. But having friends makes it easier."

      "I said go away!" Anders insisted, this time picking up his plate and leaving. 

     Solona shook her head and scowled.

       "How rude!" she cried. 

      Zatrion shrugged. 

      "Maybe he just doesn't like that I'm an elf," he mused, starting to cut the mutton in front him. 

      Jowan and Solona's eyes widened in alarm. 

     "No!" Jowan insisted. "No, of course not. There's nothing wrong with being an-" 

     "If he is like that, it's his loss," Solona interrupted, "You're one of the best people I know, Zatrion."

     Their reassurance comforted him, but it did not answer why Anders was the way he was. Or why he had rejected Zatrion's offer of friendship. Zatrion would get the answers to the latter, albeit courtesy of Anders's next escape attempt.

    It was the end of Zatrion's first full month at the Circle when it happened, and Zatrion was sitting near the fire in the apprentice dorms, reading a very alarming letter from his sister Nella.

     Alarming because he had been consistently writing letters to both his sister and mother, telling them all about the Circle. About how much more luxurious it was than the Alienage, of the fun he was having learning magic, about Jowan and Solona.

     In short, there was absolutely nothing that should have motivated Nella to write a letter like this: 

      Dear Zatrion, 

      I am so sorry for what happened. I only hope you can forgive Mother and me. We should have protected you; but instead, Mother put you in their hands and I failed to stop her. I'm coming for you, little brother. I will rescue you; I promise. 

      From, 

     Nella 

    What in Andraste's good name-? Nella seemed to be bizarrely afraid for Zatrion, as if he was rotting away in a prison cell. Worse, she continued to be as angry at Mother as she had been the day he'd left.

   Regardless, Zatrion was certain that the templars would not approve of sixteen-year-old elf girls scaling the tower walls to come 'rescue' Zatrion. Picturing it, Zatrion was not sure he approved of it either; they had yet to get to actually trying levitation yet.

   Zatrion thus immediately whispered a spell to set the letter aflame, and part of the page immediately started burning. And just as he was tossing said burning letter into the fireplace, in burst the templars, once more carrying Anders between them like a rag doll. Anders looked significantly worse for wear than the last time, however; there were bruises on his face, his robes were torn, and from the tears in his robes one could see nasty looking cuts on his body. 

    As the two templars tossed Anders onto his knees, a third behind them declared: 

    "Let this be a lesson to you all," the templar declared, "Of what happens to foolhardy apprentices."

     With that, the templars left, and the rest of the apprentices began whispering among themselves. Anders dragged himself to his bed, resembling more of a moving corpse in his apparent exhaustion than anything else.

     Concerned, Zatrion rushed to aid him just as Anders fell into his bunk. He wasted no time in beginning the basic healing spell he'd learned, not even to ask permission. Instead, Zatrion concentrated on drawing on the natural energies into Anders's body, to work on sealing and mending Anders's various still-bleeding cuts. 

      "Thank you," Anders breathed after the last of the cuts sealed and seemingly disappeared. 

     "Why did you do it?" Zatrion asked, the blue light from his hands disappearing as he moved to work on the bruises. "Why did you escape?"

     Anders let out a scoff.

     "Is that a serious question?"

     Zatrion scowled.

     "You tell me," he replied, gesturing towards Anders's now-healed body. "It doesn't seem worth it, does it?"

     Anders shook his head.

    "Maybe not to you," he murmured. "You're an elf, right? From an alienage, most likely. From what I've heard, this place must seem amazing by comparison."

    Zatrion's jaw dropped.

    "It is amazing," he countered, briefly dropping his hands and letting go of the healing spell. "Why can't you see that?" 

     Anders sighed. 

     "You don't realize it, do you?" 

     "Realize what?"

      Anders sat up and looked Zatrion right in the eye and said solemnly: 

       "I didn't get these injuries during my time out there, you know. It was the templars that did this to me." 

       Zatrion let out a little gasp. 

      "The templars?" 

      As a group, the templars were unsettling, with their fixed stares, their swords and armor, and their obsession with the rules. Still, Zatrion had been taught they only hurt maleficar. Anders, while a troublemaking escape artist, was hardly an evil blood mage. 

       Anders nodded vigorously. 

     "And they might have done it the first time, too, if it weren't for Irving," he added. 

      "But you're only an apprentice!" Zatrion protested, finishing off the last of the bruises. "And a child!"

      Anders rolled his eyes. 

      "Do you think they care about that?" he scoffed. "Do you think that they brought you here for your own good?"

      Zatrion averted his eyes. 

      "That's what they told me," he replied. "It's what Mother said, when she brought me to the Amaranthine Chantry." 

      Anders's eyes widened. 

      "Oh," he whispered, seeming horrified. 

      "That's what she said after we put the fire out," Zatrion continued blankly, the terror of that day coming back to him. "That she didn't have a choice and it'd be better anyway."

      The two latter parts of which Mother had repeated constantly on the way to the Chantry: I'm sorry, I don't have a choice. And it's better this way. 

      "That's...that's-" Anders stammered, apparently struggling to understand it. "What about your father?"

      Zatrion shook his head.

      "Dead, I think," he told Anders. "But my older sister, Nella...she objected, if you're curious. And Pairon, even though it was his house I...almost burned."

      Anders sighed in what appeared to be relief. He then said, in a reassuring tone:

      "I started a fire too. It was the barn, not a house though." 

      Zatrion frowned. 

     "That seems to be common with us. At least, those of us who don't arrive as babies." 

     Anders raised an eyebrow. 

     "Babies?" 

      "Jowan was left at the Chantry when he was five," Zatrion explained with a shrug.  "And Solona came here a year later. But she doesn't remember anything before that, so they might as well have been babies." 

      "Ah." 

     "The offer still stands, by the way," Zatrion reminded Anders. "If you want to be friends with us, all you need to do is say the word." 

      Anders let out a chuckle. 

      "Thanks, but I don't plan on staying here for long." 


       
      No, indeed. Anders did not.